


473. chipped nail polish

by piggy09



Series: The Sestre Daily Drabble Project [229]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9711260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: If she can keep all these facts lined up, they won’t morph behind her back into something that can hurt her. Helena is lying on the couch of Sarah’s brother. Helena just killed more people than she can count. Helena is now dead to the DYAD. Helena is now dead to the place that was her home for more than twenty years. Helena’s nail polish is chipped at the thumb of her left hand. Helena is shaking.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [145\. overthrow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9692126) by [piggy09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09). 



> Continuation of yesterday's drabble!

Helena is lying on the couch of Sarah’s brother. Helena is listening to Sarah argue with her brother. Helena is holding a letter opener. Helena can’t let go of the letter opener, because her hand is crusted tight with dried blood. Helena is shaking.

If she can keep all these facts lined up, they won’t morph behind her back into something that can hurt her. Helena is lying on the couch of Sarah’s brother. Helena just killed more people than she can count. Helena is now dead to the DYAD. Helena is now dead to the place that was her home for more than twenty years. Helena’s nail polish is chipped at the thumb of her left hand. Helena is shaking.

God, she wants Sarah to touch her. This is a dream so familiar to her that when she unfolds it in her brain she can see all the creases in it. Helena grew up with Sarah’s ghost – Sarah’s ghost lying next to her in bed, Sarah’s ghost trapped on the other side of the mirror. So many nights she’s spent imagining her sister back to life, imagining her sister’s hand on her shoulder or tucking her hair behind her ear. Nothing enormous – she could never make the Sarah of her imaginings hold her – but small things. The sort of brief, familiar touches that ground you.

Helena grew up with Sarah’s ghost, but between the two of them maybe she was the ghost. Sarah certainly isn’t the ghost – Helena has never seen anyone, really, who looks more alive.

She twists her head on the couch to watch the two of them. Sarah looks seasick. Probably Helena’s fault; by now she certainly regrets bringing Helena here. Helena looks back down again, at her hand, at the letter opener. She flexes her fingers. Flakes of dried blood fall to the floor. This is the only result.

Imagine if Sarah came over here and sat next to her on the couch. Just – imagine that. Such a small thing. It could be true, that’s the worst part of it. It could happen absolutely any second; it’s like a knife in her. Sarah unreal was much less dangerous.

But Sarah is real. Remembering that, over and over, is like a series of electric shocks.

Lightning hits sand and turns it to mirrors. Lightning hits Helena and it’s just Sarah, kneeling in front of her, her face level with Helena’s face where Helena is lying on the couch.

“Why are you such a mess,” Sarah says, and it sounds fond. God help the both of them, it sounds something close to fond.

“I don’t know,” Helena says. Her words sound like animals pulled from seashells.

“You’re not staying here,” Sarah sighs. She bounces a little on the balls of her feet, presumably from nerves. If Helena’s hands weren’t bloody – if she was brave – if she could reach out and put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and _still_ her—

“I assumed,” Helena says quietly.

“You’re gonna get washed up,” Sarah says, “and we’re gonna take you to a safehouse, and we’re gonna figure out what to do with you from there. Alright?”

Helena blinks at her, baffled despite herself. “You’re not sending me back,” she says. Then she winces: even to her own ears, she sounds desperate and weak and unbearably young.

“No, Helena,” Sarah mutters. “We’re not sending you back.” She looks behind the couch, in Felix’s direction. Then she looks back at Helena. Swallows. “Unless you do somethin’ really stupid, then you’re gone.”

“How will I know,” Helena says.

Sarah just stares at her flatly. She doesn’t blink. Then suddenly she does blink, and her stare is just a stare, and she’s looking at Helena’s hand. “First thing’s first,” she says. “ _That_ is gone.”

For a brief, shellshocked moment Helena thinks Sarah is talking about her hand, and – she’s fine with it. Sarah could cut off her hand if it meant she could stay. As long as she still had one. Sarah could be both of her hands. She’s aware that this is a terrible way to think, but she can’t stop herself – every feeling she’s ever been terrified of, her entire life, she has poured into the aching canyon where her sister should have been. She doesn’t know what else to do with all these feelings but give them to Sarah. She doesn’t know.

Then Sarah’s hands are closed around Helena’s hand, and she is gently – gently – _gently_ – gently – gently pulling Helena’s fingers apart. The blood cracks. A shower of rust on the carpet. Sarah is focused on the task, completely, and Helena is focused on her. Oh, she realizes. Sarah wanted the knife. Not Helena. Just the knife.

She lets her fingers uncurl, and there it is: the letter opener, still red with the blood of everyone who has ever lied to her. Sarah takes it. It looks wrong in her hand, even though her hand is just Helena’s hand.

Sarah stares at the letter opener. Her mouth parts, like she’s going to say something, but no words come.

“Yes,” Helena says.

“What?”

“Whatever you were going to ask,” Helena says. “The answer is yes.”

Sarah looks up at her, guarded. “How d’you know I was gonna ask something,” she says.

“How could I not?” Helena says.

Sarah shoves a hand through her hair; it isn’t the hand that’s holding the knife. “We’re gonna – get you some clothes,” she says, visibly uncomfortable. “Go wash all that blood off. Then we’re getting you out of here, yeah?”

“Sarah,” Helena says.

“What.”

“Thank you.”

Sarah shrugs a shoulder and stands up, heads towards the makeshift kitchen again. “Don’t get used to it,” she calls over her shoulder.

_I could never get used to it_ , Helena imagines telling her. _If you’re ever kind to me again I’ll treasure it. It’s the best present anyone has ever given me_. But that – no. Too much. Always too much.

Instead she lies there and opens and closes her bloodied hand, over and over again. It feels empty. But then again, it’s always felt empty. It’s not as if that’s anything new.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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